


promise to let it grow

by doubtthestars



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 13:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20694251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/pseuds/doubtthestars
Summary: No one would ever call Sami or Mario normal, so it stands to reason their journey to bonding wouldn't be as well.(or Madrid is for lovers, but Turin is where they call home)





	promise to let it grow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).

> as always, twitter is where i live and die and pick up casually thrown out ideas and run with them. Fair warning, I relied heavily on wikipedia and some scattered news articles. Most one-liner players exist according to the rosters i dug up but are probably mangled horrendously out of character to suit my purposes. 
> 
> And again, i played fast and loose with Sentinel AU bc i can never just stick to a trope but the basics are Sentinels are people with enhanced senses (could be all, could be some) and Guides are people that can balance out Sentinels and vice versa. I sprinkled some psionic theory/background bc i like to complicate my life and it makes sense in my head that S/G are a psionic human subspecies rather than just random gene lottery.

Sami tests out of the Sentinel-Guide classes by being carefully examined by both the bonded pairs in charge of the subject and finally the local centre’s Alpha Guide. 

“You’re extraordinarily contained.” The Guide makes a gesture with both hands drawing closer into the shape of a ball. Sami nods, because he had learned to acknowledge the words said by adults instead of what he felt through his heightened senses. He had also learned that they expected him to fidget instead of staying still, so he looks out of the narrow window until the Alpha Guide stops writing down her notes.

“And you haven’t had any spikes or zone outs in two years?” He sighed a little at the predictable question. He’d had to register his baselines at the centre two years ago and then begged his parents to skip every attempt to check in because he didn’t need it. He didn’t need the specialized SG classes either. 

“No, everything’s normal.” Guide Hoffman scribbles something down.

“Have you met your anima yet?” Sami frowns, shaking his head. She smiles reassuringly. It prickles like static shock mixed with lapping warmth against his mental sense of self. He doesn’t quite manage to hide the scrunch of discomfort on his face because she immediately stops telegraphing comfort at him. She adds another note to his file. 

“It’s not uncommon, with an emergence like yours at such a young age, to not be able to fully connect with the psionic plane. It says here you helped save your neighbor’s life at the time of your emergence?” 

Sami looks down to his hands in his lap before catching the Alpha Sentinel’s eyes, sitting just across Guide Hoffman by the small library of books in the corner of the room. He looked curious but friendly, not pinging any sort of extra sense of danger or avoidance like some other Sentinels Sami had met in passing.

“My hearing had been weird for days and Amir’s mom was pregnant. I was home with my brother but I kept hearing something like a drum, except it was really fast and then I heard Amir’s little sister started crying and the drum wasn’t beating right. I told my mom that something was wrong and we checked on them and found Mrs. Shareef had fainted. She had a blood clot. I was hearing her heartbeat.” Sami shifted in his seat.

“I came to get tested the day after because we had to watch Amir and his little sister. Four out of five were outside of mundane range and my psi sense is high for my age.” It was all in his file. Guide Hoffman flipped through some pages before looking at her Sentinel in a wordless exchange that ended with an amused smile and a huff.

“Okay, Sami, I will sign the permission to excuse you from your secondary SG classes because they are meant for basic training and I don’t think you need that, but I do want to see you at the centre at least once a month to monitor your baselines and work with you. We have a small group of students that meet here on wednesdays. Some of them are only a few years older than you. It’s important for you to be able to interact with others in our community. Your hypersensitive psi sense could hinder your ability to bond if you don’t learn how to control it.” She says gently. 

Sami doesn’t agree but he nods, because he’s supposed to.

-

Mario takes him under his wing, even though he’s only two years older than Sami and he’s been in Stuttgart for less time. There’s nothing awkward or implicit because Mario is a Guide and Sami is still walled off enough to confuse regular people and everyone else. Mario just winks at him and charms everyone in his radius that is unbonded or psi-sensitive enough to pick up on the wave of determination that is Mario Gomez.

“I’m pretty sure that’s semi-illegal and Coach is going to yell at you again.” Sami says drily. It happens at least once a fortnight and still Mario tries his best to inject enthusiasm into everyone at training whenever there’s a lull he finds unacceptable. 

“I’m not brain-washing or coercing. Just lightening the mood. You just can’t appreciate it because you’re boring and refuse to lower your shields. What are you hiding under those anyway, or are you saving yourself for your true love?” Mario purses his lips together and bats his eyelashes. Sami rolls his eyes, knocking his shoulder into him to tip him off-balance. At least he knows Mario is joking, not actually trying to pry. It’s the lesser of two evils of the assumptions Guides make about him. A traumatic and tragic past is the one Sami hates, because it takes twice as long to convince anyone otherwise. 

“Maybe I just want a normal life without nosy Guides in my brain.” 

Mario looks at him for a long minute, then smirks.

“That’s what you _think_ you want, sure. Personally, I’m going to wait patiently until you eat your words. You can’t stop a bond through willpower. Those shields won’t stand a chance with the right Guide, no matter what you do.” He says with a fake casual shrug and a smile.

“I know, but this is comfortable for me. Baseline.” Mario raises an eyebrow.

“Then maybe you should think about why your guide needs a steel wall for a shield.” 

And that throws Sami off for the rest of the day, because no one at the centre had ever phrased it that way before. Sentinels and Guides were complementary pairs is a basic tenant of knowledge even to mundane people. Everyone had always put the suspicion on Sami, who had extraordinary control but could never be called an ordinary Sentinel nor an ordinary person no matter how hard he tried to fit into normal standards. 

He’d only just managed to control his hyper awareness whenever any curious Guide or Sentinel reached out psionically. It wasn’t like his shields kept everything out. It just kept him in control of his senses. It kept everything that he was in rather than leaking over any available Guide. It didn’t feel impenetrable to him. Even a stone wall could warm up in the sun. 

Sami had never tried to imagine what kind of person his true Guide, if they were out there, would be. He hadn’t been on the look out for a Guide, had never felt comfortable in the mixers and activities set up by the centre. Compatibility tests had never come up because no one had held an interest in him. Steadiness wasn’t a trait Guides reached out for psionically, so Sami was deemed the problem because he was too closed off to touch.

-

“You’re so quiet.” Mesut had requested to room with him for the qualifiers, which had been approved with minimal shuffling. Over half the squad were either Guides or Sentinels so it wasn’t an uncommon arrangement. Coach Hrubesch hadn’t seen a spontaneous bond in over a decade and counting. He never treated anyone any differently whether Guide, Sentinel, or regular plain human, no matter what. All he cared about was that they put their best effort into playing. 

“If you say so. I mean I don’t snore.” Sami trips over his tongue and feels himself flush with embarrassment. It’s been over a year since he realized he liked Mesut for more than his style of play and humor. 

“No, I meant mentally. It’s great.” He sighs out like it’s a relief instead of an oddity. 

“I’m pretty sure you’re the first person to ever say that about me, uh, not like that, my psionic profile me.” Sami turns to his bag so he can find something to focus on besides his mortification or to possibly knock himself out with his toiletries.

“Whoever says otherwise is an idiot. Schalke is a daily headache. Manu is a mess and very loud about it. You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with it.” Mesut complains, but the words aren’t completely dire. At least, Sami thinks so since Mesut still calls Manuel his friend and hangs out with him more often than not. 

“Oh, so you’re using me to get away from the drama.” He teases gently, only to get a ‘shut up’ in reply. 

He turns around in surprise, but only sees Mesut looking pointedly towards the nightstand on the near side of his bed. 

Oh. Sami waves a hand awkwardly his way.

“Can I-” He trails off because Mesut laughs at the request before granting it with a nod. His hand hovers for a moment before landing on his shoulder. It barely takes a brush of his finger against Mesut’s skin before his shields spread and flatten enough to see the bird on top of the lampshade. It looks scaly, the pattern of its feathers all greys and browns like animated tree bark. 

“I take back the compliment. You’re not quiet at all, just-”

“Contained?” Sami fills in wryly, having heard it all of his life. 

“No, well, yeah, but I was going to say deep. Like a well. I don’t know whether to be impressed or not that your tether technique is better than mine. You’d be a great Guide.” 

Sami laughs. 

“I don’t have the empathy skills to qualify as a Guide.” He lets go of the connection and Mesut’s shoulder, feeling a little lighter. 

“Lucky, I’m telling you.” Mesut points at him with his toothbrush before they both burst into giddy laughter, still on the same happy wavelength. 

-

They’ve barely been on the plane back from the first international break of the season when his hearing goes on the fritz. There’s the crackle of distant static and the beeps and whines of several different things in the cockpit along with the voices of all of the people. It feels like a panic attack, all bubbling terror and the loud pounding of his heart. His hands are already over his ears subconsciously but it doesn’t help. It didn’t help when he had emerged either. 

“Sami? Sa...mi? C...an you he...ar me...?” Mesut’s voice cuts in and out, until he touches his wrist and Sami comes back to reality, everything muted as it should be.

He grasps at his hand too tightly but adrenaline and relief shake him to the core.

“What the fuck was that?” Mesut asks, frowning in concern. Sami shakes his head, unable to speak through the shock and absence, or crushing horror and wrongness. Everything feels jumbled in his head.

He tries to ask Mesut wordlessly, but his shields are sloshing around like rough waves overturning the boats of his formed thoughts. It hurts, bright red like looking at a laser pointer, but refracted into a haze throughout his mind. The fake calm and careful thread of Mesut’s attempt to link makes him feel green, the color, and he thinks its hysteria that makes him choke on a laugh. He doesn’t let go of his hands and he can feel that Mesut is uncomfortable with the attention in the cabin and his unexpected agitation, his worry tastes like mustard and smells like tar. 

“Sami, you’re leaking all over the place. You’re on the verge of a zone out.” 

It’s impossible. 

“I know, I know.” Mesut whispers a little too fast to sound soothing, “but whatever triggered this, doesn’t matter. You need to focus on me. Can you do that? Just until we can get up and get you into the isolation booth.” 

Sami closes his eyes because all he could see was a blur anyway. Focus was hard when his brain felt splintered and bruised. It just felt like he was repeatedly banging his elbow and hitting the nerve. Everything was wrong, phantom senses overlaid with pain. Focusing felt like the opposite of what he should do, but he was the fucked up sentinel and he had to listen to the guide in this situation, not his warped and faulty instincts.

“Listen to me, to my breathing, okay.” There’s a quiet tremble to the words, but he listens to his lungs, his heart slowing down, the rustle of his sleeves as moves their hands to a more comfortable position on the arm rest.

He falls into cataloguing and comes to in the cramped sound-proofed booth with Mesut still holding his hand and talking about his last trip to Ibiza.

“You ate the pizza even though it tasted like brine. You told me that story already.” Sami blinks, head pounding badly. 

Mesut breathes in sharp and sudden, practically broadcasting his relief.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

“I somehow feel worse than that hangover after we won the Euro, but I’m here and not...out of it.” He lets go of Mesut to wave a hand around his head. Out of his mind, or maybe out of his body, Sami really doesn’t know.

“You’ve been out of it for an hour and a half.” He says quietly as if it would soften the blow.

“What?” Sami can’t believe it, doesn’t want to try to believe it. 

“They wanted to land after the 45 minute mark, but I convinced them not to. I didn’t think you’d want the media to get wind of this story. You started responding a little after the hour so I figured I didn’t need to call a hospital once we landed in Madrid or call your agent to tell him you were catatonic. Sami, I was really worried. You told me you haven’t had a zone out since you were _nine_ and that freak out wasn’t a spike like I’ve ever seen. I didn’t think I could pull you out of the zone. You’re a stronger Sentinel than I am a Guide.” Mesut sounds like he’s choosing his words carefully, as if Sami was still unstable.

“I’m not-I don’t- I wasn’t lying. My parents knew I was latent, because I showed signs, but after my first episode. My shields…” He pokes at them mentally and they feel shaken up, as if a landslide had rearranged the natural formation, but they held, even with the spots that felt too thin. 

“Your shields collapsed. You should probably meditate until we land.” Mesut scoots to the side. Making for the door.

“Mesut, I-thanks.” Sami doesn’t know what else to say. 

Mesut shakes his head, “You’re just lucky we’re half-way compatible. I’m glad you’re okay now.” He briefly touches his shoulder before leaving him in the booth, barely bigger than the cabin bathroom. 

Sami takes a deep breath, trying to work on meditating, on making himself small and looking inward for calm, be he can’t shake off the creeping loss, the loneliness. Something besides his shields had shifted and changed. Even when he was younger at those terrible meetings designed for unbonded guides and sentinels to mingle, he hadn’t felt so alone. 

-

It didn’t get better. 

Even though his shields were still strong, he had zones, usually related to his sight or hearing and Mesut would help as best he could until he snapped out of it. Never as long as the one on the plane and curiously not in Germany.

“Maybe the move was a bad idea.” Mesut throws out half-seriously one night after dinner. 

“Spain does not agree with you perhaps.” Karim adds, just to stir the pot even more. Sami sighs. He couldn’t regret the move, even as his body and mind rebelled in unexpected and difficult ways. He racked up more injuries in the last two years than he had in the rest of his career. 

It was like whatever had triggered him psionically, had rewritten him into a real Sentinel with the regular problems of a Sentinel plus an extra helping of sprains.

Pinocchio probably didn’t lament being a real boy as much as Sami did.

-  
Mesut leaves for Arsenal and Sami fares even worse through the season.

“Maybe Mesut is meant to be my Guide.” Sami says to his screen.

Mario and Basti, who somehow invited himself into the conversation and was unfortunately actually paying attention instead of doing whatever he had come to do in Mario’s house. Sami stared at the slightly pixelated version of his frown, missing the judging faces Mario and Basti made at each other. 

“There wouldn’t be a maybe in that sentence if it were true. Compatibility is great and all,” Mario stresses the great strangely before getting jostled by Basti, who takes up the screen even with Mario’s loud protests and shoving hands.

“But it’s not perfect. You know when it’s your true Guide.” Basti nods sagely.

Sami isn’t impressed.

“How would you know?” The national team gossip grapevine hadn’t mentioned anything about Basti in a while. 

“I know a bunch of old and happily bonded guys. It’s Bayern, the air around here attracts them or something.” Basti’s face and the whole screen goes dark for a minute, even as the audio picks up a scuffle and some creative insults. 

Mario appears, smoothing back his hair.

“Mesut isn’t your guide. You just haven’t let go of your half-assed crush on him and you’re a picky Sentinal with _so_ many issues. Ow, fuck, Basti. He’s not weird enough for you. Your shields would’ve let him in easily instead of collapsing like a deck of cards if he was yours.” 

Sami opens his mouth to correct him, because Mario was definitely over-simplifying and glossing over things, but didn’t get the chance as Basti cackled like an evil cartoon villain off screen and Mario’s mouth pinched unhappily. Sami sighs and lets him deal with whatever havoc Basti was creating with a wave goodbye. 

It’s been almost twenty years and Sami had met exactly one person that’s compatible enough for him. Granted, he spent over a decade of those years under shields that made a billionaire’s panic room look lax, but it didn’t make it any easier to find his true Guide. 

He had thought long about the chasm that ripped through him on the plane back to Madrid. It was an ache that never went away and it never added up with any of the theories he’d heard from friends or professionals, but Sami had feared the worst on long nights with little sleep. 

His Guide could have died and all he was left with was this formless grief that had punctured right through the perfect shields meant to protect them. 

-

Mario emerges in the upheaval of his life. It’s traumatic enough without the status of being a Guide attached, but he couldn’t do anything against it. His family had plenty of Sentinels and Guides in their ancestry that it wasn’t a surprise so much as an inevitable consequence. 

“He’s much too young.” The heavyset doctor fretted. He repeated himself for the benefit of his parents as if they were deaf or dumb. Mario scowled and pushed his displeasure _out_ with considerably little effort. His mother called out his name, the reprimand stronger with the worry that hung around her like a cloud. 

“Come here,” He hops off the table with the help of the stool and goes to hug her. She puts her arm around him tight and that makes him feel better somehow, knowing he was safe. 

“We’re leaving. The doctor can talk to your father, hmm?” She pushes his hair back and just like that the visit was over. Mario was free to ignore every foreign word the doctor was haltingly explaining to his father and especially ignore the deep well of sympathy the man had. He didn’t have any broken bones. He wasn’t bleeding, but the doctor persisted in feeling at him, about him like he was a child in pain.

“I’m not sick.” He tells his mama once they’re outside of the room. 

“No, you’re not. We always knew you were special, since you were a baby. Always watching everyone, sensitive to our moods. You’re not sick, just different.” She cups his cheek, stroking it before taking his hand and leading him out of the door.

They wait outside, counting the birds they see in a game made up on the spot. 

“I want to play football.” Mario says, as if he’d just remembered the thought, seeing a group of older boys in kits walking across the street. 

“Okay,” His mother agrees calmly but a burst of sad-joy accompanies it. 

Germany is different from home, but he feels better here than at home. Ivana just shakes her head at him when he tries to explain it with words he doesn’t have and then shoves her hand on his forehead when he tries to explain it without words like putting distance between them would stop the emotional feedback.

“You know you’re not supposed to do that.” She hisses like the cat that hangs out in the narrow space between their house and the neighboring on. He had tried to coax it inside once, because he liked the way her fur was so many different colors and he wanted a pet. Animals were easier to understand than people.

His sister would make a good cat, he decides and stops pushing his emotions at her.

“You have to concentrate, make a wall, like the neighbor woman said.” She stacks up her hands, one on top of the other to demonstrate. Mario kicks out his foot, looking down. He’d gotten into trouble then too for having a nightmare too loudly and waking the whole house up with his fear. 

“It doesn’t make sense.” He sulks. Their neighbor had marched right up their steps and demanded to see whoever was making all the psychic noise. Mama had invited the old lady to stay for lunch even though she looked grumpy the entire time and only drank tea. She had talked to him for _hours_ about building shields and walls, and keeping everything inside instead of yelling it out to the world. 

Mario didn’t want to build walls. You couldn’t see out of walls. Walls were boring without a window to see outside. 

“_You_ don’t make sense, dummy.” Ivana flicks him, done with the conversation. 

-

“We can’t stay.” His father sounds and feels tired-sad-angry. 

Mario runs.

“Always so loud,” Franziska complains, wrenching open the front door and looking down at him in muted surprise when he clings to her, pushing everything in his mind to hers. They stay in the threshold until Ivana is there apologizing and explaining but the old woman just shushes her.

“Okay, okay.” She pats his back reassuringly, even as he starts to sob.

They end up in the white room like always. Franziska didn’t like staying in the white room but Mario loved it. Ivana couldn’t tell the difference when she had stayed quietly still to watch him meditate one time, but it helped him concentrate better than anywhere in their house.

“Tell me about home.” He looks up, confused at the request. 

“Your home, in-” She looks at Ivana impatiently like she was the one who could read minds instead of Mario, but Ivana seems to understand quicker than he does because she fills in the blank easily.

“Slavonski Brod.”  
“Yes, tell me about Slavonski Brod.” Franziska stumbles through the name but keeps a firm voice, the same as when she teaches him lessons on being a Guide and how the world works for people like them. He shakes his head stubbornly.

“I don’t know.” It’s curt and rude, but she didn’t mind curt and rude when it was honest. His head hurt. Everything hurt when he thought of leaving. 

“Come on, Mario,” his sister says softly, sadness blooming like ink in water.

“No,” He curls into himself.

“You remember, we...we had a yard. You would pull up the grass and throw it in the air.” He vaguely remembers the sensation of the blades of grass tickling his face, laughing as they came down randomly on his clothes, but it’s so far away, lost in newer memories. Home was torn between now and then. Home was the smell of the bakery they passed every tuesday and the lights on the river. 

“I want to stay.” It’s important he use his voice. It’s important that the words are heard. Ivana looks at him with red rimmed eyes. 

“I know.” She draws him into a hug, suffocating but warm. 

“You can’t,” Franziska interrupts, brusquely and Ivana goes rigid, a spark of anger catching against her thoughts. Mario turns though, attentive. Her best lessons were always like this.

“There is a wide, wide world out there, young man. You cannot change the course of things now, but soon, you will be old enough to seek out your Sentinel. Remember what I’ve told you. Do not hide away your strengths to please anyone else, your Sentinel will be your perfect match. There is nothing wrong with feeling too deeply. You are gifted, Mario, not broken.” 

-

Quiet and angry usually didn’t go hand in hand but Mario made it work for him. 

“It’s like you’re a different person out on the pitch.” Kruno says through the towel on his head. He’s mundane through and through if you didn’t count his uncanny ability to find the back of the net with his shots. Josip snorts at the locker next to his. Matija pops his head up from his notebook with a wary eye on them all. Mario gathers his things up carefully, slow enough to deliberately let the minutes go by for the conversation to change subjects but no one takes pity on him. 

“Seriously, you were lucky the ref didn’t catch that shove.” Kruno continues, not even looking at him and not taking the hint. 

“I wasn’t lucky. I was just angry that he tripped Ivan and they didn’t even bother with a call. He’s already looking like a mummy with his arm like that.” Ivan’s ears turn red as he hastily puts on a shirt, cursing when the sleeve gets caught on the end of some tape. 

“Don’t bring me into this.” Ivan was a Guide, the only other Guide getting as much starting time as Mario, but he didn’t exactly find him eager to bond over the experience. Mario was a little too intense for most other Guides and Sentinels found him strangely unsettling. Sports generally attracted their kind and Mario had thought it would be different, surrounded by professional football players instead of schoolchildren, with the exception of Matija who was still studying, but there wasn’t much of a difference between Marsonia and Zagreb.

He was still an odd duck among his peers.

“Don’t listen to them. They should be thanking you for setting up Lovrek with a goal.” Dragan spoke and everyone listened. He was the only bonded Sentinel on the team and their goalkeeper. 

“Injustice makes me angry too.” Dragan threw it out like a joke but Mario could sense the muted truth of the statement. It had been a rough game and Mario was helpless in the call to rise to the challenge. The swell of the crowd pulled him in enough to forget why he shouldn’t be that furious at the bad calls and dangerously close balls to their own net. 

The locker room moved on to weekend plans and Mario smiled at Dragan who only acknowledged his gratefulness with a nod.

-

Croatia is _everything_. 

Playing for the national team is everything he hoped for out of a team and it brings out the best of him, like all that had been missing was this team at this moment for him to finally find a home. Mario is overwhelmed, infecting everyone with a whiplash of contentedness that hardly fits with the atmosphere of losing the match. 

Darijo snorts out a laugh like it’s the damnedest thing he’s felt all day. 

It’s not until later that he gives him advice from one uncontrollable Guide to another.

“You won’t get away with half the shit you think you will, but you should try anyway.You’ll grow from it.” He shrugs like he can take it or leave it but Mario listens because they’re similar in ways he can’t begin to explain.

With the exception of Niko.

Their bond is so strong, it’s nearly smothering. He doesn’t know how Luka or Robert or any of the others can concentrate with them in the room. Separately, their profiles are just like any other bonded pair but seeing them together is like looking at the sun through a straw. The whole picture wasn’t there but it was understood and it was devastating like a force of nature.

It made him think about the sort of Sentinel he would find at the end of the road. Franziska had always said it was a journey. Meeting your Sentinel was half the battle, how the bond took was the other half. It was the reason compatibility tests were made. The fear that there would be someone else out there even more suitable. 

Niko, for all that he was bonded, felt comfortable, or something immeasurably familiar.

“Staring won’t help you solve the puzzle that is their relationship.” Luka frowns at his phone, glancing at Vedran chatting with Ivica across the room before shaking his head.

“What puzzle? It’s easy to see.” Mario replies, putting on his socks.

“Sure, if you believe in fairy tales.” Luka squints like he’s adding numbers in his head and they don’t add up to whatever he thinks they will. Mario stays quiet, thoughtful. Niko is the quintessential Sentinel captain on paper, and Darijo is...well, Darijo. It didn’t make sense in the typical way, in the stories that were portrayed in movies and novels, but it was real. It was better, even if it gave him a headache from emotional feedback sometimes.

“They’re _bonded_.” He says. Luka doesn’t looks impressed, but Charlie bounds over to them with all the enthusiasm of a dog with a bone. 

“What’s got you upset?” He stares accusingly at Mario and he can almost see the bear inside of the man, assessing the potential threat. He puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m not upset,” Luka somehow looks more surly than before. 

“Jealous then?” Corluka liked playing with fire, Mario could tell just by the internal glee coming off him. 

Luka doesn’t visibly take the bait, but his usually even-keel mind freezes and it’s the oddest sensation Mario has ever felt, like watching the weather forecast predict a storm. He was calm but inwardly whirling into himself, pulling into a gravitational force of his own making. 

“I can tell, you know,” He wags his hands around like deranged spirit fingers. “The cosmos says all is not right with Luka Modric, and who am I to ignore that?” 

“You’re so full of shit.” The room opens up, everything resets back to normal and Luka stands up, bag on his shoulder. Charlie smiled ruefully and went back to get finished dressing.  
He’s still whirling, and Mario makes a mental note to not get involved with whatever was going on with those two.

-

Germany is an itch under his skin, a splinter he can’t get out and he’s half-convinced his ten year old self was deluded into seeing things as better than they were. Mario had made peace with his life and where he belonged. Coming back to Germany was just a safety net and a test all wrapped into one. He wasn’t a child anymore. He had come into this contract and the move with adult eyes. 

Wolfsburg wasn’t exactly perfect, too industrialized to pretend he’s anywhere in the vicinity of his childhood memories, but something settles where the itch was, that phantom pain had shifted into a barely noticeable pang. 

Even when he suffered a knock early in the season and had nothing to do but take it easy with the handful of players that either hadn’t been called up with their national teams or were retired, Mario didn’t feel restless. He didn’t have the need to be doing something, to be somewhere else or be some_one_ else. 

“You are different.” Patrick remarks one day during training. 

“Magath made a good decision.” Mario does feel better in his natural position, free to breathe and focus on where and what he should be doing. Scoring felt easier, like his mind wasn’t scattered and working on twenty different problems when there was a clear path, a clear shot if he just ran a little faster, reacted in time. 

“No, different here.” He points to his temple.

Mario takes mental stock, but can’t pinpoint a difference beyond feeling more anchored, more sure of himself. He shrugs.

Bayern comes calling in the wake of his success. 

“Is there anybody who isn’t a Guide or Sentinel?” He asks Robben. The team is as busy psionically as it is physically, but it’s not intrusive. As a whole, it has a different flavor than the national team or the various other clubs he’s been in. There’s a fierceness to Bayern that pushes them to fight for more but he isn’t sure if it was the collective mentality of the players or if there was just an expectation to soar at the club. 

They do soar, every win lighting up the team like fireworks, loud and unable to ignore.  
Mario counts matches through touch. 

Thomas shaking his shoulder against Arsenal, and Ribery going for a slap of his hand after Hannover. Gomez with his arm around his neck and Basti jumping on his back. His own hands to his ears as the cheers get louder and his name is sung in the stands. 

It’s a dream that goes dizzyingly high until they land in Wembley, and then it’s a perfectly polished piece of silver touching his lips.

-

Luka’s birthday was supposed to be a lowkey affair until Sergio stepped in to help, so it predictably devolved from a nice dinner to chaos.

“It’s his last year in his 20s. He needs to celebrate properly.” There was a collective groan while Iker only shot him a look that Sami was almost sure was the telepathic equivalent of NOT ANOTHER STRIPCLUB in warning

“It’ll be classy, and you bastards better show up.” He claps his hands together like it will spread his enthusiasm to the rest of them by kinetic energy. Marcelo edges closer and takes one for the team by talking gifts until everyone is half-heartedly throwing out ideas for a group present.

“Is it worth going to?” Toni sidles up to him in the parking lot. 

“If you want free entertainment for the night, yeah. Sergio is a happy drunk unless someone picks a fight.” Sami unlocks his car and watches Toni dump his bag into his backseat while weighing the pros and cons of making an appearance at whatever club Sergio no doubt has lined up for the evening.

“Are you going to go?” Toni asks.

“I guess. It’s not the same, hearing the hungover version of whatever happened the morning after.” 

“Modric is going to hate it, isn’t he?” 

“Yeah, but he’ll live and we’ll get free drinks out of it.” 

Sami loses Toni and Dani in the crowd. He tries looking for Sergio or Bale or anyone by the VIP tables but doesn’t spot anyone familiar. Clubs like these weren’t exactly the most Sentinel-friendly to the senses which is exactly why Sergio liked them so damn much. He fights through the clusters of people to get to the bar. 

“Iker,” He feels relief for a second before he sees Jese holding a napkin to his nose and smells blood while Iker ignores him to buffer Jese from their environment with a steady stream of conversation. Jese waves at him before pointing in another direction, which Sami takes as a hint to where the rest were. 

“What happened to Jese?” He asks when he finally reaches Sergio, who immediately launches into an explanation that turns into a story when something catches his attention. At first, he thinks it’s somebody’s perfume bold against the general sweat and cool air of the building but there’s too many complexities to the smell to be something out of a bottle. It’s filled with warm spice and the sour note of still water. He tries to parse the rest but only gets the sharp sting of vodka with lemon, snapping him out of it to see Sergio with a glass under his nose and Luka frowning at him.

“Alright?” Luka asks slowly, suspicious in the way he always gets when it comes to having to guide a Sentinel out of his tangled senses.

“Yeah, yes. Thank you.” Sami is still dazed, brain still furiously stuck on figuring out where the smell had come from and why it was gone, but it was no use, there were dozens and dozens of people in this part of the club alone. 

“Happy birthday.” He says as an afterthought. 

-

His face feels hot, the smoke coming from the stands irritates his eyes and nose. Sami sets his jaw stubbornly. His senses are tightly reigned in and nothing is going to stop him from being present on the pitch. He could do this, redirect all the tension of the derby, of the missed opportunities into energy. It didn’t matter what the scoreline was as long as he stayed focused.

Half a dozen passes with the ball moving through the midfield too slowly to do any damage and it’s already half time. Frustration makes the locker room silent. His neck itches with the sweat cooling there. 

Ancelotti strategizes with heavy defense in mind.

He gets taken out for Jese, but his body can’t rest. His eyes are still on the ball, watching it in frames, not exactly in a zone, just hyper aware as boots make contact with a solid thwack, the whistle of the ref, the flash of yellow as he pulls out cards. His eyes track and track, and Sami doesn’t know what he’s searching for beyond a way out of this hole. 

Griezmann comes off, Torres goes in. Alvaro makes an incredulous noise next to him. 

Mandzukic argues with the ref over the yellow card, and Sami stops, freezes as Torres leads the other striker away calmly. 

He doesn’t like that. Why doesn’t he like that, why is-

A Guide. His mental sense flickers like a flame, pulling him out, reeling him in and joy cracks the earth beneath him. Sami stands up subconsciously as the net behind Iker shakes. Satisfaction and victory ricochets through anyone sensitive enough with the impact of a meteor. _He_ is projecting even as he jumps on Torres in gratitude for the assist. 

His Guide had been there all along. 

-

Simeone called him an out of control Guide for fighting him on his decision to bench him. Mario had barely managed to hold down his anger and disappointment. Standing up for himself wasn’t being out of control, but lashing out psychically would be. 

The week goes from bad to worse with a suspension and a stubborn migraine that makes his skin feel too tight to breathe in. 

Luka calls.

“What?” He tries for patience but ends somewhere more towards terse. The line is silent before he hears Luka breathe out slowly as if gearing himself up to give a speech. It’s familiar, if out of place, but Mario pictures him wherever he might be, back straight and head held high and it’s comforting.

“I have news.” He says evenly, unexpectedly. Mario braces himself for the worst, unconsciously trying to reach him through his senses. He could probably manage it, if Luka would let him without labeling it an intrusion. 

“Did you get hurt?” Mario tries to remember who Real had played recently but comes up empty. 

“No,” He can tell it isn’t a lie even if he has to rely on just hearing Luka’s voice, “No, it’s not anything like that, but we need to meet up, if you have time.” Mario tamps down the urge to laugh because of course he does, when he’s on the outs with his coach.

“I have time tonight, if it’s urgent.” 

Luka sighs oddly before agreeing, “See you tonight then.” 

His lynx is pacing the living room when Mario arrives. The door was unlocked but Luka wasn’t anywhere in sight, just the lynx eyeing him with her tail swishing through the air. Her ears perk up before running out of the room. Mario follows sedately, confused when he passes by a crow sitting still enough to be a statue on one of the kitchen chairs. He goes to touch it before Luka appears with his lynx scrambling to sink her claws into his pant leg in warning.

“I wouldn’t do that.” The calm in his voice is at odds with his anima’s insistence of dragging him away from the bird, who only flutters his wings for a second before crying out. 

“What’s going on.” Mario’s skin prickles at the sound. Luka grimaces before turning his head back towards, someone, towards the back room, his isolation room, Mario thinks. The tour of Luka’s house had been brief back when he’d arrived in Madrid but he remembers the odd placement, an addition Luka had to pay for for his own peace of mind. 

“Who else is here?” He demands, watching the crow watch him. 

“That’s what the news is about. I know who your Sentinel is.” Luka is grave, serious enough for him to pause, looking away from the bird, to look at him. The lynx butts her head against his leg.

“That’s impossible.” Mario hears himself say, numb with shock.

He would know, but he doesn’t, and Luka would never joke about this, wouldn’t dare bring it up unless he confirmed it six ways to sunday and exhausted every other possibility because it was about bonding and bonds were difficult enough in normal circumstances but no one had ever deemed Mario a normal Guide.

The sting of Simeone’s voice is still too fresh for him to ignore.

“How?” He wants to go to the room himself, but there must be a reason Luka is standing guard, putting himself between them. 

“I’m not sure,” and Luka finds that unacceptable, Mario feels that through the shaking, shifting landscape of his mind grappling with a Sentinel and a bond, and all the unknown qualities held within those two words. 

“He touched your mind briefly. It wasn’t intended to- there’s a latch, but you don’t have to, if you don’t want this, I’ll tell him to leave. I’ll _make_ him leave.” Mario finds strength in Luka’s conviction, leans into his purring Lynx for support. A latch, a hook, a psychic marker that held something like the imprint of his mind in the mind of a Sentinel. A piece of him existing elsewhere, waiting to be actualized, galvanized into a full bond. 

“Who is it?” He asks and Luka steps aside.

-

The crow finds another perch in the room. Mario reflexively relaxes under the blanketing effect of the shielded walls. It’s at odds with his instinct to tense up in the presence of a Sentinel. Sami doesn’t move towards him, looks like he doesn’t even want to breathe too deeply, trying to puzzle out if Mario will accept him or not. How Mario can read that so easily from the lines in his face, he doesn’t know. 

“I didn’t know.” Sami says it like an apology, “I thought you had died.” 

Mario can practically taste the displaced grief before it’s colored in with sharp hope, penned in by caution. 

“Why?” It’s a struggle to hold back from Sami’s mind, every skimming glance to gauge his honesty, tempting him to dive deeper. No one had ever felt so welcoming, not even his family. 

“I had an episode, a psychic crisis or something, five years ago. My shields were never the same after that. The only explanation I could think of was my Guide dying. I should’ve known. Madrid was starting to feel like home, but I couldn’t explain why. I just thought,” He shrugs, “maybe I should stay here.” 

Mario shakes his head, dread climbing from his gut. Something was fundamentally wrong with that notion, he couldn’t stay in Madrid because Mario-

“I can’t.” Sami makes a wounded noise, shutting his eyes, grasping inside himself for a lifeline. Mario grabs him by the shoulders and the world explodes. He laughs as the last five years finally make sense, how everything changed, how he hadn’t noticed because it wasn’t _him_. They were his shields, _for_ him but not _his_, until now.

_Oh_ the tether trembles between them, trying to unfurl and stake roots further. 

“I can’t stay here, in Madrid.” and it’s so easy to see now, in hindsight they whys and hows falling into place, Mario can see it clearly, Madrid wasn’t the solution and he showed Sami with just a thought.

“Okay,” He swallows, and covers Mario’s hands with his own, lightly, giving him the choice to let go. “So we won’t.” 

Mario smiles. 

-

For all that science doesn’t know about the nature of a bond, there is a general agreement on how to start:

Sami doesn’t zone on his Guide’s heartbeat because that’s the choice he makes, to keep track of the steady pulse in his ears while Mario’s faint amusement circles around his mind. He had been nine years old the last time he’d focused this hard on a heart. 

-You were nine and I was ten and I had to leave the place I called home-

They had talked about it, how many times they must have missed one another by some twist of fate. How every chance rippled in their lives until they had been just twenty minutes apart in the same city. 

-change the course- the snatch of words gets clearer. 

He inhales and it's the same spice and river water scent he had caught that night, sweat, grass, iron and sunshine like chalk on a board, floating on top. He drags it into his lungs, pulls it apart, coats his senses in it, anchoring, as he sinks into sea and smoke, sweet and dark. 

-you are-

Fire, embers, heat, his skin shivers under touch. His gaze burns just as hot, sharp pleasure cleaves them together before softening, blurring into something tangled with need.

-my Sentinel-

Traditionally, taste is last. Sentinels and Guides would share a piece of fruit or a sweet, harkening back to Eve in the Garden, before the modern wedding industry took over tradition. He didn’t need fruit to imprint his sense of taste on Mario.

“Guide,” He murmurs against his lips. 

The bond settles into place. Where the tether was a live wire humming with potential, the bond is moonlight spilling through a window, effortless. Their shields expand and collide, stone and ivy with glass and fire, turning into the hearth of a home within their minds. Belonging had been a long journey.

“Let’s welcome the newlyweds back, eh?” Leo puts his arms around the both of them because he knows no shame nor boundaries. Stephan congratulates them while Alvaro turns an alarming shade of red before mumbling something like a congratulations. Gigi picks Sami up in a hug while crowing about another bonded Sentinel in the ranks. 

“I can’t believe you waited six months to bond.” Paulo says, shaking his head before attaching himself to Mario, checking him for any physical changes, which Mario bore with exasperated fondness. 

Turin was further than where they started, but it could be home for the both of them together.

**Author's Note:**

> and they lived happily ever after because what are transfer rumors....
> 
> there's a lot to unpack and lots of outtakes/ bits that didn't make the cut because I couldn't make it work or it just took away from an already rambling storyline. There's a lot of repetition and mirroring intentionally because their stories are running parallel to each other and it always tickles my fancy to see how small the world could potentially be. I did fudge the timeline just a bit especially in Madrid because im not super sure when Mario and Simeone had their spat but i placed it around march 2015. 
> 
> generally i dont know if Sami and Mandzo wouldve met at some point before 2015. I did check ucl/international tournaments/ qualifiers and didnt see them cross paths but a friendly couldve happened earlier/ i couldve missed something.
> 
> anyway feel free to comment and ask questions.


End file.
